Chapter 38

by Jack London

　　Chapter XXXVIII

　　"I think my left side is going," Wolf Larsen wrote, the morningafter his attempt to fire the ship. "The numbness is growing. Ican hardly move my hand. You will have to speak louder. The lastlines are going down."

　　"Are you in pain?" I asked.

　　I was compelled to repeat my question loudly before he answered:

　　"Not all the time."

　　The left hand stumbled slowly and painfully across the paper, andit was with extreme difficulty that we deciphered the scrawl. Itwas like a "spirit message," such as are delivered at seances ofspiritualists for a dollar admission.

　　"But I am still here, all here," the hand scrawled more slowly andpainfully than ever.

　　The pencil dropped, and we had to replace it in the hand.

　　"When there is no pain I have perfect peace and quiet. I havenever thought so clearly. I can ponder life and death like aHindoo sage."

　　"And immortality?" Maud queried loudly in the ear.

　　Three times the hand essayed to write but fumbled hopelessly. Thepencil fell. In vain we tried to replace it. The fingers couldnot close on it. Then Maud pressed and held the fingers about thepencil with her own hand and the hand wrote, in large letters, andso slowly that the minutes ticked off to each letter:

　　"B-O-S-H."

　　It was Wolf Larsen's last word, "bosh," sceptical and invincible tothe end. The arm and hand relaxed. The trunk of the body movedslightly. Then there was no movement. Maud released the hand.The fingers spread slightly, falling apart of their own weight, andthe pencil rolled away.

　　"Do you still hear?" I shouted, holding the fingers and waiting forthe single pressure which would signify "Yes." There was noresponse. The hand was dead.

　　"I noticed the lips slightly move," Maud said.

　　I repeated the question. The lips moved. She placed the tips ofher fingers on them. Again I repeated the question. "Yes," Maudannounced. We looked at each other expectantly.

　　"What good is it?" I asked. "What can we say now?"

　　"Oh, ask him - "

　　She hesitated.

　　"Ask him something that requires no for an answer," I suggested."Then we will know for certainty."

　　"Are you hungry?" she cried.

　　The lips moved under her fingers, and she answered, "Yes."

　　"Will you have some beef?" was her next query.

　　"No," she announced.

　　"Beef-tea?"

　　"Yes, he will have some beef-tea," she said, quietly, looking up atme. "Until his hearing goes we shall be able to communicate withhim. And after that - "

　　She looked at me queerly. I saw her lips trembling and the tearsswimming up in her eyes. She swayed toward me and I caught her inmy arms.

　　"Oh, Humphrey," she sobbed, "when will it all end? I am so tired,so tired."

　　She buried her head on my shoulder, her frail form shaken with astorm of weeping. She was like a feather in my arms, so slender,so ethereal. "She has broken down at last," I thought. "What canI do without her help?"

　　But I soothed and comforted her, till she pulled herself bravelytogether and recuperated mentally as quickly as she was wont to dophysically.

　　"I ought to be ashamed of myself," she said. Then added, with thewhimsical smile I adored, "but I am only one, small woman."

　　That phrase, the "one small woman," startled me like an electricshock. It was my own phrase, my pet, secret phrase, my love phrasefor her.

　　"Where did you get that phrase?" I demanded, with an abruptnessthat in turn startled her.

　　"What phrase?" she asked.

　　"One small woman."

　　"Is it yours?" she asked.

　　"Yes," I answered. "Mine. I made it."

　　"Then you must have talked in your sleep," she smiled.

　　The dancing, tremulous light was in her eyes. Mine, I knew, werespeaking beyond the will of my speech. I leaned toward her.Without volition I leaned toward her, as a tree is swayed by thewind. Ah, we were very close together in that moment. But sheshook her head, as one might shake off sleep or a dream, saying:

　　"I have known it all my life. It was my father's name for mymother."

　　"It is my phrase too," I said stubbornly.

　　"For your mother?"

　　"No," I answered, and she questioned no further, though I couldhave sworn her eyes retained for some time a mocking, teasingexpression.

　　With the foremast in, the work now went on apace. Almost before Iknew it, and without one serious hitch, I had the mainmast stepped.A derrick-boom, rigged to the foremast, had accomplished this; andseveral days more found all stays and shrouds in place, andeverything set up taut. Topsails would be a nuisance and a dangerfor a crew of two, so I heaved the topmasts on deck and lashed themfast.

　　Several more days were consumed in finishing the sails and puttingthem on. There were only three - the jib, foresail, and mainsail;and, patched, shortened, and distorted, they were a ridiculouslyill-fitting suit for so trim a craft as the Ghost.

　　"But they'll work!" Maud cried jubilantly. "We'll make them work,and trust our lives to them!"

　　Certainly, among my many new trades, I shone least as a sail-maker.I could sail them better than make them, and I had no doubt of mypower to bring the schooner to some northern port of Japan. Infact, I had crammed navigation from text-books aboard; and besides,there was Wolf Larsen's star-scale, so simple a device that a childcould work it.

　　As for its inventor, beyond an increasing deafness and the movementof the lips growing fainter and fainter, there had been littlechange in his condition for a week. But on the day we finishedbending the schooner's sails, he heard his last, and the lastmovement of his lips died away - but not before I had asked him,"Are you all there?" and the lips had answered, "Yes."

　　The last line was down. Somewhere within that tomb of the fleshstill dwelt the soul of the man. Walled by the living clay, thatfierce intelligence we had known burned on; but it burned on insilence and darkness. And it was disembodied. To thatintelligence there could be no objective knowledge of a body. Itknew no body. The very world was not. It knew only itself and thevastness and profundity of the quiet and the dark.